


Lost Crow

by rywned



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10931553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rywned/pseuds/rywned
Summary: Years after his initial exile from Castle Cainhurst, the Bloody Crow is granted his wish to return and see just what has become of his beloved people and home.





	Lost Crow

This had easily been his worst mistake. Far too cocky, far too confident in his own ability to take down any who dared to try and end him. The old bitch of a hunter in the stupid bird garb had been easy, as had the two obviously new hunters that had followed shortly after. But this one was far more experienced, faster, and had been able to wear him down. The crow garb he had taken as a trophy was shredded and glued to his skin with blood, his ankle no doubt twisted after landing on it awkwardly, and the sheath for his chikage had been tossed to the other side of the cathedral after it’d been cut loose from his belt. He couldn’t stop his arms from trembling as he gripped his blade, breathing heavily as he watched the hunter stalk around him. He was far too used to being the predator, he had never really expected to be the prey.

The crow was barely able to dodge the next attack, throwing himself to the side to avoid the sweep of their axe, only to end up stumbling and collapsing onto the ground. Panting, he struggled to push himself up enough to watch the hunter advance, his eyes locked onto the blood-stained blade, and felt resigned to his fate. This was where he was to fall, in an empty cathedral built by the very monsters that had slaughtered his people. He’d never find his way back to Cainhurst, never see for himself whether or not his dear queen had survived. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself; he’d failed Annalise as a knight, it seemed a fitting punishment that he wouldn’t be allowed to return home and mourn.

_Let it be quick,_ he thought, the axe rising high above the hunter’s head. He couldn’t stop himself from tensing as it began to fall, flinching as what looked like the end of a spear burst through the center of the hunter’s chest. Their eyes widened in surprise before they slowly looked down at the wound in confusion. Before either could truly process what had happened, the spear was yanked down harshly before being ripped out, a spray of blood soaking garb and splattering across the white stone of the cathedral. The hunter collapsed to the ground, spluttering and writhing in agony for several moments before finally going still.

“Such a waste of blood,” the owner of the spear, which was actually a large blade, tutted as he wiped his weapon clean on his sleeve. “Quite amazing that one as pathetic as this even managed to make it this far through the night.” He glanced down at the crow. “But then again, which of you is truly the waste? A child of a hunter who knows not what they are dealing with, or a disgraced knight forced into exile?”

He had to be seeing things, surely he had conjured this man from nothing in the haze of pain and numbness. The crow raised his stronger arm to push up the visor of his helm, blinking several times as if he expected the newcomer to simply vanish into thin air. Yet there he remained, now leaning lazily against the sword that now stood jammed into the ground.

“And just how do you know that I am a knight?”

The hunter gestured to his garb. “Your armour. That which isn’t stolen, of course. Well known to be that of the men and women who directly serve Queen Annalise of Castle Cainhurst.”

“You recognise it?” The crow was surprised to see that a common Yharnamite would know the attire of Cainhurst nobility.

The hunter chuckled. “I am not quite as common as you think. I’ve known my fair share of Cainites over the years, and all but one were arrogant bastards who couldn’t go more than five seconds without belittling someone.” A moment of silence passed between them. “You have a name, knight?”

“Olivier.”

“Well then, Olivier,” the hunter said, reaching into his jacket and pulling free an envelope. “What would you say if I told you I hold a chance for you to return home?”

Olivier’s heart leapt in his chest. Oh how desperately he wished to go back, even if it were only for a few moments. But he knew better than to immediately trust the words of a stranger, especially those of a man who still had all his strength.

“I’d ask if you thought me a fool, hunter,” he replied.

The way that the hunter’s eyes crinkled told him that he was smiling beneath the dark mask that covered most of his face. Olivier watched as the envelope fluttered free from the hunter’s grasp and landed a foot away from his reach. “The choice is your of course, but there will be a carriage waiting in Hemwick, should you choose to accept.”

In one swift movement, the blade was yanked free from the stone and hefted onto the hunter’s shoulder before he turned and began to saunter towards the door.

“Wait!” The hunter paused. “Just who are you exactly?”

There was a slight turn of the head. “No one.”

And then he was alone once again. Olivier could only stare after him, exhausted and confused, yet thankful his life had been spared. With a small groan of pain, he forced himself to sit up and reach for the envelope, tearing it open and pulling free the contents after pondering just who “Alfred” was. Even with no idea of who it was addressed to, the neat cursive written on the page was something he recognised and had seen a thousand times before. An official invitation to the castle, written in the hand of one of Annalise’s most trust handmaidens after being dictated by the queen herself.

He sat there for several moments, rereading the page over and over again. It was in no way his to take, he had been exiled after all. But surely the circumstances would allow his return to be forgiven? Or would he still be turned away and shunned by any who had managed to survive? _Sod it,_ he thought, wincing as he climbed to his feet and snatched up the sheath for his chikage. _I’m going home whether they like it or not._

The moon seemed to be an even deeper red than it had been when he’d first entered the cathedral. The light tinted everything in its eerie glow, especially the pale beak of Eileen’s mask. Olivier’s hand flew to his blade at the sight of the old woman lying slumped at the top of the stairs, cautiously approaching when she didn’t move. Several prods and still nothing. She was already dead, no doubt succumbed to her wounds. He spat on her corpse and then gave as sharp a kick as his body would allow, grinning through the pain as she tumbled down to the next landing.

“Pathetic old wench,” he muttered before slowly inching his way down the stairs. “As if she truly believed she could take down one such as myself.”

Beside her once again, he took the moment to search her body for anything that would be of use to him. He toyed with taking her blades as his newest trophy, but he wasn’t quite as accustomed to using two shorter ones simultaneously. He didn’t hesitate at the sight of the flask tied to her belt, ripping it free and fumbling with the top, water spilling over his hands before he drank deeply and splashed it on his face. It felt good to finally wash off some of the blood and sweat that clung to his body.

Satisfied that he was somewhat ready for what would no doubt be a long and painful walk, Olivier turned towards Hemwick and took his first steps home.

 

~

 

He’d never enjoyed forests much. Too many times twigs and stones had found their way into his boots where he’d been forced to leave them until he’d been able to take them off. Tonight he was more appreciative of them. He paused after emerging into the forest to scavenge enough sticks for a makeshift splint. Anything to try and alleviate some of the pain in his ankle. On the downside, it meant that his foot would no longer comfortably fit within its boot and he had no desire to carry it all the way back to Cainhurst. Thus it was abandoned atop a log. The myriad of stones that dug into the sole of his foot dropped Olivier’s mood drastically, but it was far more preferable to being hacked to pieces.

As much as he didn’t want to think about it, he couldn’t help but wonder whether or not hunters had already passed through this way earlier in the night. The area was uncommonly quiet, the moon illuminating the dozens of fresh corpses that littered the paths, far more than he had expected there to be. Even with this many, he still thought that there should be _something_ still alive and wandering about, waiting for the perfect moment to strike him down. But there was nothing, not even a lone stray dog separated from its master. Was he truly the only one still alive?

A sudden shiver down his spine made him stop, his heart beginning to pound as he turned to look around. The only movement came from the rustling leaves and tree branches as a gentle wind blew through them, but he knew he wasn’t really alone. Something was watching him, most likely had been following since he’d first left the cathedral. It wasn’t the first time that he’d been followed for unknown reasons, and as long as they stayed at a good distance, he didn’t necessarily mind. If they decided to venture closer, he would have to decide whether or not it was worth trying to fight, or if it would be better to flee. The great ache in his body reminded him that neither option would really do much good.

Hemwick turned out to still be in as much of a mess as it had been the last time he had ventured through. Odd torture devices and hastily made weaponry scattered about the dirt paths and clusters of tombstones, with the occasional heap of corpses wrapped tightly in dirty cloth. Also devoid of life, just as the woods had been. Olivier couldn’t help but try to peer through the boarded up windows and knock on a few doors, just to see if there was anyone actually inside. He never got an answer. Whoever had passed through before him had been very thorough indeed, seemingly clearing out the entire village as well as the woods. It made him uneasy, made him grip his chikage just that little bit tighter than necessary.

And just as the strange hunter had said, a lone carriage sat waiting for someone to board at the crossing. He relaxed ever so slightly at the sight of the horses, a fine pair of Cainhurst thoroughbreds. He patted them affectionately, unable to stop himself from smiling as one of them snorted right in his face, then climbed inside. The carriage pulled away before he’d even sat down, prompting him to stumble backwards onto the old plush seats. For a moment he merely sat there stiffly, staring ahead at nothing as the carriage rocked to and fro with each stone it rolled over. Chikage laid across his lap, he let his head fall back and breathed a sigh of relief. It was the first moment of peace in what felt like months. One that he knew wouldn’t last long, and needed to be savoured for as long as possible. A difficult feat when all he could think of was what would be waiting once he crossed the bridge back into Cainhurst territory.

 

~

 

He hadn’t even realised that he’d fallen asleep. One moment he’d been staring ahead and focusing on nothing in particular, the next he was jolted awake after being thrown to the floor as the carriage suddenly pulled to a stop. He groaned as a fresh bolt of pain snaked its way through his body before reaching up to rip off his helm, cursing himself for not doing so earlier. As he gently massaged where his head had thumped against the curved metal, he felt goosebumps rising on his arms, followed by a sharp shudder. It was cold, incredibly cold.

Throwing open the carriage door, he was immediately buffeted by a blast of icy wind, snow drifting inside and covering his feet. It was now that he cursed himself for leaving his other boot behind in the woods, not that it would have really done much more to keep him warm. He gasped as his bare foot touched the icy ground, quickly switching to standing on just the other in an attempt to lessen the feeling. As he stared down at the ground to look for less icy patches he walked on, he noticed not one but two sets of footprints already settled in the snow, both heading from where he stood right up through the main gate. The second thing he noticed were the horses, once warm and breathing now thin corpses buried beneath a thick layer of snow, their eye sockets hollow and skin pulled tight against their ribs. They had been dead for months, if not years. But how was that possible when mere moments ago they had been moving across the-

The bridge behind was collapsed, nothing more than cracked broken stone leading into the abyss of the lake far below. Olivier could only stare as his mind scrambled for an explanation. There were many things in life that he simply did not understand, but he was absolutely certain it was impossible to cross from one season into another, over a bridge that didn’t exist using long dead horses. Which also should have meant that it was impossible for there to be footsteps here before his arrival. A knot formed in his stomach as he thought of just who could possibly have a reason to venture to an abandoned castle. He prayed that it wasn’t more Executioners, they’d have no reason to return after so long. Wouldn’t they?

Limping his way up the stairs to the wide open gate, he pondered just what would greet him further inside. Would there be nothing but the rotted remains of his people and their murderers? Perhaps some had managed to survive, and had been in hiding this entire time? At best, he hoped, there would be nothing but a fine layer of dust covering everything within an empty castle, the dead long rotted away and at peace in an afterlife. At worst, an Executioner would be hiding somewhere within, ready to pounce and smash him into pulp.

The courtyard was a complete whitewash, the main doorway barely visible through the veil of snow. Teeth chattering and hair whipping about his face in the wind, Olivier slowly followed the footprints as they veered off towards the entryway of the castle, his heart sinking to see that the old blood had managed to twist even his own. Large mosquito-like creatures with bound eyes and bulging bellies slumped lazily against the statues that littered the grounds, or greedily lapping up the last drops of blood that remained in the few corpses that still lay outside. Thankfully none of them paid him any real notice as he crept past, one momentarily raising its head in his direction before giving a great yawn and turning the other way.

Inside wasn’t necessarily any better. No longer as cold, instead he came face to face with a crowd of spectral women; their hands bound tightly before them, faces wrapped with blindfolds and dried blood smeared beneath the long deep slits in their necks. Some carried knives, others carried their own severed heads, all of them wept endlessly as they wandered. Several passed straight through him, leaving a thin layer of frost on his armour. Some raised their daggers towards him in fear only to pause, as if they could somehow recognise him as one of their own.

“What did they do to you?” he whispered, reaching out to one that he recognised, a woman he had once courted in their youth. She shook her head and turned away from him, as if she were ashamed he had to see her in such a sorry state. The small droplet of panic that had settled in the back of his mind rushed forwards as a flood. If this was what those damned Executioners had done to these women, then what on earth had they done to the queen?

The splint was not enough to stop his ankle from screaming in agony as he broke into as much of a sprint as his body would allow, the rest of the castle flying past in a blur as he ascended to the rooftop that led to Annalise’s chamber. A strong gust of wind pushed him the minute he stepped foot outside, making him stumble and grab onto the railing to steady himself. As he trudged onwards, he vaguely recalled rumours of how the Executioners had sealed Annalise away towards the end of their invasion as they had been unsuccessful in killing her. There was hope that she was still alive, though he would never be able to reach her if her chambers were sealed.

But the way was open. The roof was covered in splatters of red, the snow packed down tight where it had been trodden on multiple times. There had been a fight here, recently too. A lone corpse lay flat near the open doorway, a discarded crown just barely out of its reach. Logarius, now nothing more than a frozen skeleton in tattered rags. He should have felt anger at seeing the old man’s corpse, instead Olivier just felt relief. He was already dead, he would never be able to hurt his people again. Though it didn’t stop him from taking the time to slowly roll the body over to and off the edge of the roof, watching with a deep sense of satisfaction as it fell. Let gravity mangle him as he had mangled Cainhurst.

Olivier found himself shaking as he slowly climbed the stairs that led to Annalise’s throne, his strong stride slowing to a crawl. He never would have admitted it aloud, but he was afraid. Afraid of what he’d see, of how she would react to his presence after his disgraceful exile all those years ago. Would she be relieved to see another of her people still lived? Could he maybe beg forgiveness and be allowed to come back, to be her knight as he had before? He choked out a laugh at the thought, knowing it was a fool’s hope. All she would do is chastise him for daring to return then demand that he leave immediately. He decided that her reaction didn’t matter. As long as she was still alive, as long as she was safe, he would continue to accept whatever judgement she deemed appropriate.

 

~

 

Perhaps it was due to the echo of the room, but the laughter sounded so much louder than it actually was. It was maniacal and endless, as if the Executioner didn’t even need to pause to catch his breath or even lower his arms from the odd praising gesture he seemed to be frozen in. Olivier hardly paid him any attention. Instead he merely stood paralysed, staring at the mass of pale writhing flesh that sat smushed on Annalise’s throne. He had prayed that she would still be alive, and he supposed that she was...to a degree. He knew it was exceedingly rude to do so, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring and attempting to mentally piece her back together.

_Alfred...you missed one._

The laughter stopped almost instantly, snapping the crow out of his trace and drawing him back to the present. He should have run, or at least hid behind one of the statues, but only stood as the Executioner slowly turned to face him.

“Oh?” he breathed. “And just what do we have here? How did you get away?” He leant down to grab the great blood-stained wheel that sat lying at his feet. “Oh, no matter,” he chuckled. “No matter indeed. Not even that wretch of a woman you dared to call a queen lives now.” He began to advance. “Our duty is already fulfilled, best for you to go quietly now.”

Even as death approached, Olivier still couldn’t find the will to move. His gaze remained locked on the fleshy mass, even as the wheel was smashed into his chest and sent him flying across the room. He knew that he could have run, could have survived and plotted and waited for the right moment to hunt down every last Executioner that still lived. Instead he just lay there silently and waited.

_It seems that I have failed you yet again,_ was all he could think as the wheel came down once more.


End file.
